


death I choose to live (you I need to breathe)

by enkiduu



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sexual Content, Warning: Jack the Ripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/pseuds/enkiduu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People say that love kills. </p><p>Jacob just never knew they meant it so literally. </p><p>(This is the point of no return. But then, in retrospect, there are too many points of no return to count, so maybe Jack has always been a one-way ticket to Hell, taunting Jacob to jump off the cliff, take that doomed leap of faith.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	death I choose to live (you I need to breathe)

The nights of London are familiar—this is where Jack grew up—but harsh, because hey, this is where Jack grew up. The moon hangs over the boroughs, illuminating the city with its false light. Thick clouds shroud the skies, casting shadows that skid off the streets, haunted by filthy screeching rats in the sewers.

The autumn wind passing by kisses Jack's cheeks like a vengeful ghost. He presses the sharp edge of his blade to the cool smirk playing on his lips.

The people of London are both figuratively and literally in the dark. For years, they have forgotten fear. They don't know true terror, the hideous dread that'll devour their souls. They worry not about monsters in the night because they foolishly believe themselves to be safe.

Oh, how dead wrong the soon-to-be-dead are. The world is a dangerous and cruel place—after people start dropping, the living will wish they could just die.

_Rip the blinds from their eyes and I'll show them all, show them how life goes._

This dance of destruction is beautiful and as simple as breathing—except breathing isn't so simple anymore because the world has become so ugly without Jacob beside Jack.

Jack's expression darkens as he seethes. His tongue flickers out and he tastes blood.

For most of his life, he'd thought himself alone. Sure, there were other children like him in the alleyways, scraping for ugly survival. But they didn't know the steps to this dance, the notes of the song...they were stupid pawns, useful but ultimately, mere red herrings to be thrown to the constables.

Even in the asylum, Jack was different. The others were weak and pathetic, tormented by their demons and their gaolers' poisonous syrup, while Jack survived despite his own. His demons strengthened his will. Fear does  _not_ rule Jack anymore. Instead, Jack rules fear. 

Then Jacob came to save him.

Jacob Frye, who is different from the rest.

Jacob, who is so damn brilliant and clever, he's the light who dragged Jack out of Lambeth Asylum, gave him life outside the slums—and then tossed him right back because he's a fucking coward, now, playing master of a lost Creed instead of master of Jack. 

He doesn't give a flying shilling about the Creed, but Jacob does.

Jacob does not owe the Creed anything--it's rather the opposite. If threatened, the Creed would sooner abandon Jacob to self-preserve than to save him. Isn't that the rationale they gave for abandoning London to the Templars years ago? The Assassins wouldn't slice the world and dice it on a silver platter for Jacob Frye, or any other Assassin. 

People are so easily corrupted. They are unworthy of Jacob's loyalty. 

_Traitor, traitor._

It incites rage in Jack, a rage that burns within his chest, leaving behind a trail of raw wounds. Jacob is supposed to be different, he's supposed to be just like Jack. Jack knows that Jacob understands him. They understand each other, in a way even his twin Evie Frye cannot.

The two of them, they share a bond, that between friends, brothers, and something much more visceral.

Jacob is lying to himself, pretending for normalcy's sake. As if either of them could be anything but extraordinary. As if Jacob really could truly ignore the magnetic pull between them, the electrifying connection that burns and burns.

 _But he's ignoring me_ , the wounded part of Jack (which is every part) screams shrilly. How can Jacob do this to him? Reject him so cruelly, when Jack saw the desire in Jacob's eyes, _tasted_ it on his lips?

Before he'd fucking shoved Jack away and ceased to look at him.

_Coward. Since when did you start running away?_

Jacob Jacob _Jacob_. 

"It's always about you," Jack hisses.

It'd be so much easier if Jack could simply bear hatred the other man, but reality has never been merciful to him, and so it's so much worse than hate. 

Jack has long learnt to pry survival from the limp fingers of the corpses he steps over. Now, he needs to find a way to make Jacob see the truth.

Together, they could have it all. They'll make the Assassins so strong the whole world will fear them. They complete each other, and—

Jack needs him to breathe. 

_You're my only weakness and you're killing me._

Jack has been so good for Jacob. He's ignored the voices in his mind, telling him to _ravage ruin ravish_ , because Jacob clings to the terribly pointless belief of what is right. A sense of _duty_.

For Jacob to leave Jack alone is devastating, and it fuels Jack with dread and despair. Jacob's the only thing Jack has to lose, he can't lose him.

The ache in Jack flares and he slips his blade away and dons his disguise in a swift motion. He quells his erratic breathing and drops onto the street, silent like the shadows, resolute like a vengeful ghost. 

Jacob will bleed. Jack will show him the agony of betrayal, then he will understand that they are perfect together.

Jack is ready, even if London is not. After all, what has London done for him, except steal Jacob Frye from him?  

-✖-

London is darker than it was under the Blighters' Templar dominance, perhaps even more so. At least then, there was a veil of duplicity, a  _give me your everything_ _and we won't kill you_. There was some semblance of order, however insidious. It's worse than Robespierre's Reign of Terror, because Jack the Ripper's Autumn of Terror makes the countless guillotined heads look  _clean_. 

There are no heads rolling on the streets of Whitechapel. 

Instead, there are intestines pulled out and hung like stockings, slices of supposedly half-eaten liver mailed to Whitechapel's Vigilance Committee, and blood-written lettres bringing out numerous copy-cat murderers. Instead, it's  _Jack_ out there, laughing in the night, haunting London with hallucinogens worse than those imposed on him many years ago. He's the phantom that the Assassins cannot catch, because...because he's part of the Assassins. He was the apprentice Master Jacob Frye had taken in. 

Lo and behold, Jack wears the unofficial crown of London-- king of the Rooks who manipulates all the crime syndicates and has Scotland Yard defamed and distrusted.  

Oh, yes. The traitors to the Creed have become powerful, just as Jack had promised, a pivotal night two months ago. But power comes at a price, and this one is much too steep. This is wrong, so, so wrong. 

At least with the Templars, London was still powerful, strong. Not...not this shitty mess of a city. The world pities London, and all of Great Britain is shaken by the sensationalised (realistic) news that  _Jack the Ripper_ is out prowling, hunting (and the world is so grateful that the ripper only roams London, decaying, withering London).

People are dying. 

Assassins are dying, and Jacob has been incapable of stopping Jack. He cannot.

That's a miserable thought, because it's Jacob's fault. If Evie were here, if she  _knew_ , she might try to persuade him otherwise, say _you couldn't have known, do not blame yourself, brother. We will catch him and make him pay._

Except she's not here, and she does not know.  

No one is as close to him as Jacob has been since Jack was recruited as an initiative. So yes. Jacob should've known. He did know, knew too well--he'd seen signs of Jack's instability and obsession with Jacob since Jack's first kill as an Assassin. Inside Jack dwells the fervent thirst for thrill, bolstered by his bloodlust and restless mind. Jacob has been able to rein him in well, but ever since Jack's bloodlust contorted into pure lust, Jacob has not known how to act.

Jacob did not know Jack had despised the Creed so deeply. 

Now it's too late ( _why, damn it_ ). The more people Jacob sends, the more brutal Jack becomes. He claimed to want to build with Jacob a new Creed of Assassins and crumble the old Order, but the only thing he's built is a city of terror.

So many talented Assassins have fallen victim to Jack, hunted down before they could even get near Jack's henchmen. Jacob doesn't know how Jack figures out who's after him so quickly—they're all female assassins Jack has never encountered. 

Jack has turned London into a bloody cesspool of crime in the mere span of two months. No other man in history has been able to achieve induce this amount of mass-scale terror.

If it weren't so fucking despicable and wicked, Jacob might even feel proud. 

Tonight, two more have died, and Jack's lettre still dares ask him if he sees the truth. Jacob feels so helpless and useless and  _heartbroken_ , how can he have cared (still care) for a monster like Jack? How can Jacob still believe in his redemption? 

Well, there's only one answer, but that possibility has been wrecked by Jack's killing for sport. 

Then, Jacob hears a bloodcurdling roar. The few people who still dare roam London at night shatter the silence with nightmarish screams, voices gurgling with blood. 

"Bloody hell," Jacob mutters, "it's not even a surprise anymore." He swivels around and rushes toward the origin and finds himself in a battered but familiar theatre of London. 

He makes it in time for the aftermath, for once. Usually they scream too far for him to reach in time.

Jacob stares at Jack, who's crouching down before a woman, the amber wisps of his fear spike still singing the air. She's barely recognisable, carved up and spread apart like a grotesque art exhibition. 

(They say an artist's work reflects his soul. Jacob doesn't know what to think about that.)

Innocent. She's innocent. Assassins do not kill wield a blade and shed blood of the innocent. 

Jacob exhales into the crisp autumn air. The place reeks of blood. 

"Jacob," Jack says breathlessly. He stands up gracefully and casually extracts his dagger out of the woman's throat, reaching up and taking off his mask. His grin is sharp with teeth and filled with exhilaration, post-kill thrill no doubt still coursing through his veins. Despite the carnage surrounding him, the only thing Jack seems to care about is what Jacob has to say.

Jacob drops lightly in front of Jack, but he feels so heavy with this burden Jack's plunk down on him.

"Ripper," Jacob greets, refusing to acknowledge this killer as Jack. The use of sobriquet doesn't pass unnoticed (Jack's always been impressively perspicacious, just never frighteningly so to Jacob). 

There's a pause before Jack speaks, amused. "Really, Jacob? Have you forgotten my name already? It's only been two months." He smiles fondly, which is such a familiar quirk of lips.

He speaks like these past two months haven't happened, like Jack  _isn't_ actually the Ripper. Like Jack hasn't changed at  _all_ and it's Jacob who's gone around the bend and can't find his way back. 

"Yes," Jacob agrees. He's spent all this time hunting down the elusive killer, yet it always feels like he's the one being preyed. "Two months and London's already positively thriving with crime, bodies dropping dead in my front lawn. I've never been better. That's the only truth I see," he says pointedly.

Jack's mood darkens. 

 

Funny. The last time Jack wore that pissed off expression, it'd been because his cat had been mauled by a eagle. Jacob had brought him to a carnival afterwards to cheer him up. 

No, it's really not funny at all. It's hysterical and twisted and Jacob doesn't understand _why the fuck they're here right now like this_ and just generally,  _fuck, don't think about the past._

Except it's slightly hard, because they're standing in the same theatre house Jacob took Jack to see a play. Jack's always liked plays, liked the melodramatic performers, except he's also criticised their acting. Jack's criticised a lot of things.

"Fine," Jack says chillingly, then smirks sardonically. "I guess it'll take another two months, then. Ta ta, Jacob, but I won't wait for long," he promises bitterly. 

"No--" The Assassin ducks, throwing his hood over his head.

With that, Jack tosses a smoke bomb that fills up the theatre house. 

Jacob swears, frustrated, and the next day he returns to find burnt rubble. 

- **X-**

The Ripper tosses the mask over his head away. It lands with a soft thump on Jacob's table, staining his stationery with the blood of slaughtered prostitutes. 

Jacob doesn't dare look away from him. Physically, Jack looks the same as he's always been. Jawbones sharp enough to cut, curved lips always taunting. His wide blue eyes glint wildly in the candlelight, hair tousled over them. Handsome, but lethal. 

The Ripper sneers. "Jacob," he says, relishing the freedom of his own gleeful insanity. "Finally, I've caught you." 

Jacob tenses. "Jack," he returns cautiously. 

"You know," Jack drawls, "when I let you go, I didn't mean for you to flee and lurk in the shadows like a coward. You haven't even sent any Assassins. Finally run out?"

"Seeing as you stole my Rooks, yeah. I'm a little low on resources." Jacob's sent a lettre to Evie, she'll come deal with Jack. She'll be able to carry out what Jacob can't. 

Jack laughs, pleased. "Right. That's right. They were so eager to betray you for their own heads, you know."

Jacob cannot afford to enrage Jack, now. But then again, by now Jack's unstable enough to explode without his help. Provoking Jack might be the only choice, to blind him with wrath.

But unlike most people, Jack's emotions only serve to make him a better killer (if not a worse person).

"You understand now, don't you? The pain. Of betrayal." Jack's smile has been wiped off his face like it was never there. 

"I never betrayed you," Jacob says incredulously. " _You_ betrayed me."

He knows he cannot reason with a madman, but he looks at Jack and wants to believe that Jack isn't completely hopeless and lost, that Jacob can still rip him out from the throes of Hell, like he had decades ago.

"No. Jacob. They betrayed you, those Rooks of yours. And your Assassins were so ready to follow me into Hell." 

Hell. This  _is_ Hell, perhaps Jack's just not gotten the news. Jacob's gaze doesn't flicker towards the bookshelf for his pistol, but Jack has always been so observant, and they used to be so close. He knows the way Jacob fights, and he knows the nuanced set in Jacob's jaw when he's got an idea. 

The minute tell does not escape Jack. Blue eyes narrow, and Jacob groans inwardly. The only move is to act now. He reaches for a book on the ground and whacks Jack's head.

Jack blocks it with his blade, probably expecting a weapon. Jacob takes the momentary distraction to leap up and towards his pistol.

"No, no, what are you doing," Jack hisses, darting forward with his own blade.

Jacob's forced to ducks and fight him. He brings out his own blade and they fight, shadows shivering and dancing under the warm candlelight. It might as well be a friendly spar, just with the very inconvenient consequence of one of them dying.

Jack's more than capable to overpower him now. Jacob has no fear bombs on his person, no weapon that Jack cannot match.

They move in the chamber as if this is a dance, familiar and intimate but _everything_ has changed and there's no going back.

Jack's surprisingly less unpredictable than he used to be, it makes Jacob wonder how so many talented Assassins couldn't take him down. His swings are swift and forceful, but he's forgone some of his almost superhuman speed for strength. He's going for all the obvious strikes, none of the feints and mind games he favours.

They fight like they're on fire, urgent but still hopeful that they'll make it out, at least one of them.

Ironically, it's this difference in style that unbalanced Jacob and he grits his teeth as he braces himself for the inevitably violent blow.

The glint of Jack's blade disappears, but it does not sink into Jacob's flesh. Instead, it's Jack's palm that slams the breath out of Jacob, sending him to the floor.

The Ripper straddles him, closer than they'd ever been. His teeth are bared, and his fingers clench around Jacob's lapels. He's leaning over Jacob, not giving him any leeway.

(Jacob's suddenly reminded of what seems like an eternity ago, back when he could see a future for the two of them. He remembers when Jack had kissed him, told him how unworthy and weak the Creed was, then proceeded to wreck havoc on Whitechapel.)

This close, Jacob can smell the scent of fresh blood and smoke on Jack. He can feel Jacob's breath on his skin, hot and quick.

"Stop," Jacob says, "Jack, we can fix you." Who's he convincing, here?

Jack sneers harshly. "Me? Me! It's not _me_ who needs fixing, Jacob."

Does he believe it's the world who needs rectifying? Then why does he spin threads of madness, sending the world's most influential city into a spiral of ruin? 

Jacob sighs and lies his head down, stops straining his neck against Jack's hold. It's not as if Jack's about to let him up, why bother dying tired? But he won't give up without answers.

"You betrayed me," Jacob says, more quietly this time, pain dripping from the words. He tries to keep the hurt out, tries to sound strong and unaffected. He fails miserably. "Twenty years. Why? I trusted you."

It's not a distraction. Maybe with anyone else, it might be, but with Jack...God save him.

Jack laughs mirthlessly, the same miserable bitterness as before, forlorn. As he speaks, a hand creeps up to curl around Jacob's throat. " _No_ , you didn't. You rejected me for a weak and broken Order. I'm only trying to show you the truth, if you wouldn't be so  _dense_ \--"

"Why don't you just tell me and be done with it, Jack?" Jacob snaps. "Kill me, what have you, you traitor." The sane part of his mind, which sounds suspiciously like Evie, warns him that this is a Terrible Idea and he's being his signature, reckless self again. 

He, is going to die at the hands of an insane man whom he had killed for and taught all the ways of the Assassin. Would this be considered indirect suicide?

Jack blinks slowly, stunned. "I would never kill you," he says, the heat in his voice waning, distilling into confusion. His resentful expression morphs into a--fearful dawn of realisation, one that brings to Jack the same dread with which he plagues his victims.

"Jack...you're suffocating me," Jacob heaves, trying to pry Jack's hand off, but the angle is not right.

Jack inhales sharply, letting go and standing. He's trembling. The Ripper does not fear, does not show weakness.

"Jack...?" Jacob gets up slowly, lest a fast movement startle Jack again.

"It's me," Jack whispers shakily. "It's me it's me the voices keep talking about me—" he swallows, eyes fluttering furiously before they stop on Jacob's. "I love you," he says, damn him, and Jacob believes it, so to whom does the shame go?

_Love_.

Alright. Of all things...

Jacob is going to Hell, if there is such a thing in the afterlife. If Jacob believed in an omnipotent God, if he were a better man not so impulsive and ruled by him emotions over the Order (fuck—he's forgetting priorities, again, might be the last time—), he might choose the right route.

This is the point of no return. But then, in retrospect, there are too many points of no return to count, so maybe Jack has always been a one-way ticket to Hell, taunting Jacob to jump off the cliff, take that doomed leap of faith.

Since Jack seems to be the Devil, (un)fortunately for Jacob the Devil looks after his own.

Jack's gone against each and every maxim, probably broken every single rule. Nothing is true, everything is permitted—talk about a misunderstanding.

This is insane. He is insane. They are both so bloody insane.

"Jack," Jacob growls, "Jack, you fucking bastard, I didn't want to be courted by dead bodies. A simple rose would've done it."

Jack doesn't have the time to respond because Jacob closes the distance behind them.

However, he must have the shock recovery time of a lightning deterrent because Jack responds to the kiss fervently, threading a hand into Jacob's hair to pull him in. 

They collide like stars: bright, blinding, and doomed in the end.

They kiss like they're drowning—desperate with teeth and tongue—and they might as well be. This dance is more violent than the actual fighting, and definitely going to hurt more later. Jacob isn't sure whether he hates Jack or loves him, but he's fairly certain you aren't supposed to kiss the people you hate. 

(Kiss of death. It's happened before, once, two decades ago. Jacob has a knack for attracting psychopaths--or is it the other way around?)

 When they part to gasp for breath, Jack's usually pale complexion is flushed and he looks at Jacob, awed and exultant. Jack gulps and grins wildly. Finally, Jacob recognises it as thrilled desire as opposed to general psychopathy, although what's the difference.

 "Fuck me, come on, Jacob," he purrs, and desire jolts down Jacob straight to his prick. He smirks seductively, the bastard, he knows what he's doing to Jacob and he's playing him well.

"Shut up," Jacob rasps huskily, eyes blown by black disks, dilated with lust. He may not be as swift as Jack, but he is stronger. He presses Jack's back onto the wall with a loud thump.

Jack grunts, opening his mouth with pleased surprise. Jacob dives forward to swallow his smirk.

For once, Jack obeys, in the way he never did when he was apprentice—at least temporarily. He mirrors Jacob's actions, ripping their clothes off and tossing them out of sight. So many buckles, Jacob thinks fleetingly with annoyance, why must Jack wear such a hunky, unflattering coat?

Jack's fingers flutter across Jacob's body, mapping out his scars. There are many, some old, some very old. They have no time to ask each other of history, but Jack has many more scars than Jacob had expected of someone so subtle and nimble. So many secrets Jacob does not know, and vice versa, even though they are bare naked to each other right now.

Abruptly, Jacob realises, "we have no sort of lubrication—"

"Here," Jack says, conjuring a vial out of nowhere. Jacob glances at it warily. "It's not poison, don't worry, Jacob," Jack says sardonically. A hand slides down to curl around Jacob, pumping excruciatingly slowly as Jack grins fiercely and bites the cork off the vial.

Jacob shudders at the touch. "You came _prepared_ ," he accuses.  

"I believe it's pronounced 'good thinking, Jack'," Jack answers shakily as he applies thick lubricant over Jacob.

"No, it's really not," Jacob says under his breath and takes the liquid from Jack, slicking his fingers.

Jack's lips curve up. Helpfully, he presses up against the wall and hooks his legs around Jacob's hips. It looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position, but Jacob is only ever so slightly _enraged_  that Jack has become a fucking Ripper, so he begins preparing Jack with a distinct lack of tenderness. 

"More," Jack growls after a few moments, hands around Jacob's shoulders. "Come _on_ , I won't break."

Jacob just might, but he doesn't say that out loud. "You are in no position to make demands right now, Jack," he says (doesn't really believe it) and Jack laughs huskily, and digs his nails into Jacob's back, tugging him keenly with his foot, promising him danger and a lot more Jacob doesn't want to think about but does anyway. 

Jacob positions himself and pushes, filling Jack up to the hilt, stretching him apart. He braces Jack, who convulses against the wall. 

Jack's breath hitches and his jaw hangs open before he bites down hard on his lips drawing crimson, all vestige of mischief gone. His blue eyes go hazy, glazed over with pleasure, and Jacob groans, _fuck_. He's never seen Jack lose clarity like this, so lost, despite his insanity.

Jacob shifts his angle and Jack releases a despairing, wanton moan, followed by strings of dirty profanity that make Jacob dizzy.

"So good," Jack drawls, exhilarated. "I'll do anything you want," he pleads, strained, and Jacob's never heard him so vulnerable either. Jack looks at him like he is the world. "Don't leave me, Jacob. _Please_." His voice cracks a little and Jacob feels his heart break too. 

Jacob rolls his hips and answers by drawing Jack into a kiss, this time too tender that it breaks Jack, who's already so lost. Of course he says yes, how can he not, when they're this close, when Jacob has loved Jack for so long and so fucking much?

_fin._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ~I haven't actually played any of the ac games, so, this is basically just my research+imagination. Please forgive me if I've butchered canon, if that matters to you, but I'm taking my creative license and running with it.
> 
> Anyway, this was super fun to write and it's like one in the morning now, I think I'm a bit woozy. Please tell me what you think down below in ze comments! Don't leave me alone, come join meee! 
> 
> okay i think i'll write some cute jack/jacob soon. :c how can he fix someone who doesn't want to be fixed?
> 
> (I'd really love to see more of this pairing! <3)


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